


Grey

by cinnamonsnaps



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sadstuck, also i used the british spelling of grey hollaaa, yet another alpha davejohn fic because they break my heart and im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsnaps/pseuds/cinnamonsnaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call it déjà vu.</p><p>Literally, "already seen".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey

It's a rare day of rain, and it rains as if the skies have broken finally and permanently.  
The sound of a secretary's phone echoes up the staircase as Dave Strider, legendary film producer and celebrity extrovert, wearily makes his way back to his apartment.  
Sneakers slap against concrete, rain slaps against the long windows, and everything is grey. He wishes he had his camera on him - a secret hobby, something he could call his own - so he could take a picture of the uniform, extraordinarily mundane grey.  
His door is clean and newly painted, pale grey.  
He feels grey.  
His mobile displays two missed calls from Stiller, three from his PR agent and one from her. None from Snoop Dogg, he thinks with an internal sigh. None yet.  
Collapses on the futon, feet up on the table. Half finished scripts in messy abundance and a laptop on a pizza case. This is what he calls home, an eternal party for one in a secure flat in a world that's going down the drain.  
Television. It flickers grey before the cable loads and suddenly his screen is a neon flickering mess of garish colour. He turns the volume down, letting his shades slip down his nose only slightly.  
He should call her back at some point. It was probably important.  
"It's time foooor... Who's Line Is It Anyway?"  
He plays with his mobile idly, procrastinating and he knows it. He didn't want to talk to her today, not when she could cut him apart and dissect him so easily, not when he felt so flat and two dimensional and grey. She could see through him like a stained glass, and he had a lot of stains.  
"Tonight we have a new guest on the show, so please welcome... John Crocker!"  
Stop.  
Everything stops.  
The rain on his expensive panorama windows, distant traffic on the road below, his heart beat, paused and motionless. On the screen, in glorious high resolution HD LCD is a smiling man, mustache only faintly speckled with grey. There's grey in his hair, grey on his cheeks, grey glasses grey shirt _why is everything grey why is everything old why_  
He switches the channel.  
An infomercial for cleaning pads acts as a panacea, and he sighs a little. Unlocks his phone, hovers over the dialpad.  
Calls her.  
"Lalonde."  
"Strider."  
"Talk to me."  
"I know you're watching television."  
"You don't know that for sure."  
"I know you well enough to know you're watching television. You might be on it."  
The infomercial ends, jingle falling flatly on his ears. There's some dumb action movie coming up next. He snorts and doesn't change channels.  
"Yeah I'm always on the television. I'm somewhat of a big deal. All my other celebrity friends get so jealous of me let me tell you."  
"You have friends?"  
"I have Ben Stiller."  
"Actors that you employ don't count as friends."  
"He gave me his shades. That makes me his bro."  
"Does that apply to anybody who gives you shades?"  
He groans when he sees Nicholas Cage's face appear on screen. Of course, his fucking mug gets into every film Dave actually bothers to watch.  
"I am never employing Nic Cage ever. Take a memo."  
"I'm not your secretary."  
"Oh really? On no wait, you're my therapist, right?"  
Something stirs inside him when the scenes change. This whole scenario seems intangibly familiar.  
Not the movie, of course. He's seen Con Air at least a hundred times already. But he feels like...  
"Strider? Are you there?"  
"Yeah I spaced out. So what's happening over your end."  
"If you must know, my publisher finally got her wits together and started forwarding the mockup to the editors. There's just the small detail of the artwork, which has to be very specific-"  
He tunes her out, something dropping inside his gut and twisting sideways.  
Rain pounds, tapping out a rhythm. It sounds like the thud of piano keys without the strings.  
The movie rolls its predictable rhythm before him, the only light now in the dark apartment. The glow of the phone and the blue light wash the colour out of even his bright red sneakers, turning them grey.  
He can taste the grey on his tongue. This feels wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. He feels like he's watching the film for something other than enjoyment. He can mouth along to every line but it doesn't feel like he's doing it. It feels like he's doing it for someone.  
"-highly significant details. We've talked about this before. The coming of the two angels merged as one-"  
"John Crocker."  
"What?"  
He flicks the channel back, catching the old man in the middle of a sketch. So familiar, so familiar and yet different and grey and bizarre and old, he's so old, when did Dave get so old, when did John get so old, did Dave even know John when he was younger-  
"You mean the comedian? What about him?"  
He shrugs, even though she can't see him over the phone.  
"What's that word. You know, the French one, like... when you know something. Even when you've never seen it before."  
"Déjà vu?"  
"Yeah. Déjà vu. What's with that."  
"Improper neurological impulses in the brain, I believe. Simply put, a trick of the mind."  
"Don't simply put me, I know what a fucking neuron is."  
"Why do you enquire?"  
Oh god that laugh. That face those glasses, older different grey _the same_.  
"You watched "Whose Line" recently?"  
"I don't believe so."  
"Funny program, 10/10. I like the new guy."  
"Is he hot?"  
"He's like, fifty."  
"Again, is he hot?"  
He hangs up on her, an old habit (old habit since when, you've only known her for a couple of years , _your memory is acting up_ )  
Already seen. He's already seen all of this, the night in front of the television, the sincerest smile he's ever seen on untamed teeth, the relentless rhythm of the beat of the rain drop after drop after key after key.  
Switches channels once more, frowning and wrapping a blanket around himself. Misfiring neurons. False memories.  
"Put the bunny back in the box."  
He says it to himself, imagining a brilliant smile, a dorky laugh, imagining or remembering?  
Remembering what?

He collapses backwards, tugging an extremely ironic blanket over himself and staring at the ceiling.  
Counts the cracks, watches the blaring light from the screen shift and change. What is he forgetting?  
It tugs at him like a life line, or like a noose. Already seen.  
The cracks blur. He wedges a hand under his shades and brings it back wet.  
Why?  
The phone rings, and he stares at it, a white blur against a backdrop of grey couch, grey television, grey rain, grey sneakers.  
He realises something is wrong. He realises he's missing something and he doesn't know what. He realises he will probably never find out.  
Time to stop weeping in front of a bad action movie that he doesn't even like.  
"Yo, Stiller," he says, finally picking up and wiping his eyes nonchalantly. "Nah, I wasn't busy."

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this idea banging round since it was canonised  
> http://the-art-of-ascending.tumblr.com/post/33859037641/poor-alpha-dave  
> sorry i keep writing about the same fucking things ahahahhaha


End file.
